Ethan watched his mum's car vanish down the long drive before he turned to the glass doors of the main reception building. He took a deep, shaky breath, slung his bag over his shoulder, and walked inside. The lobby looked spotless and professional, featuring a large crest of the national team on the wall. A smiling woman in an official tracksuit checked his name off a list and handed him a keycard along with an itinerary.
"You're in Room 207, Ethan," she said warmly. "Your training kit is on your bed. The first team meeting is in the main hall at 15:00."
He found his room and met a boy with a wide, friendly face who was already unpacking. "You must be Ethan," the boy said, extending his hand. "I'm Leo. I just got here from Plymouth. It's mad, isn't it? I saw a guy from Chelsea's academy in the corridor. Chelsea!"
Ethan shook his hand, feeling a wave of relief. Leo looked just as overwhelmed as he was. "Yeah," Ethan replied. "It's a bit different from Crestwood."
"Crestwood? You lot won your league, right? I heard you had a real nail-biter on the final day," Leo said, his eyes wide with admiration. "That's impressive."
At the team meeting, all fifty boys sat in neat rows in a lecture hall. A stern man, the Head of Youth Development, stood at the front. "Gentlemen," he began, his voice echoing in the silent room. "Congratulations on being here. You represent the top fifty players your age in this country. But this is not a reward. It is a trial. We are looking for players with talent, character, intelligence, and resilience. This week, you will be pushed harder than ever before. Of the fifty of you in this room, only twenty-five will be invited back for the next camp. Every touch, every decision, and every moment matters. Don't waste it."
His words hung in the air, cold and heavy. Ethan felt a shiver run down his spine.
The first training session was a blur of movement and sound. The pace was astonishing, much quicker than even the fastest game he played for Crestwood. The warm-up drills had a sharpness that left no room for mistakes. When they moved into a rondo, the ball zipped across the turf at high speed.
When the ball came to Ethan, two players closed in on him immediately. His first touch was a bit too heavy. Before he could recover, a boy in a Manchester United training top named Marcus cleanly took the ball from him. "Quicker feet, mate," Marcus said dismissively, not even looking at him as he played a one-touch pass.
Ethan's cheeks burned. He felt clumsy and slow. For the next few minutes, he played it safe, making simple one-touch passes, scared of making another mistake. He could feel himself shrinking, just as Mason warned him not to. "Don't let them bully you," Mason's voice echoed in his head.
Moments later, the ball came to him again. This time, he was ready. As Marcus lunged in, Ethan dropped his shoulder, feinted a pass, and rolled the ball under his foot, spinning away from the challenge. In the same movement, he spotted a run that no one else had noticed and made a perfect, defense-splitting pass through the middle of the rondo to a teammate.
The drill paused for a second as a few players and one of the coaches nodded in appreciation. Marcus gave him a long, hard stare, showing grudging respect.
Ethan didn't dominate the rest of the session, but he didn't hide, either. He played his game, connecting passes, moving into space, and using his vision to his advantage.
Back in his room that evening, every muscle in his body ached. He felt more exhausted than after the 3-3 draw with Westford. Leo was excitedly talking about the session, but Ethan could barely follow along. He lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling, replaying the coach's words in his mind. Every moment matters. He had survived the first day and even had one good moment to hold on to. But he knew, with a chilling certainty, that this was the hardest thing he had ever done. And the week had only just begun.